Family Germs
by Nana'sTeaParty
Summary: Wee!chesters. Sam was five years old when he first learned about monsters.  Not the kind his Dad protected them from; these were tiny, and invisible, and attacked when you least expected it.  Sam had just learned about germs, and he was terrified.


Sam Winchester was five years old when he first learned about monsters.

They may not have been the monsters Dad and Dean protected him against (though it would be three more years before he knew what kind of job his Dad did) but these monsters were just as scary. They were invisible and everywhere, and would attack you when you least expected it.

Five-year old Sam Winchester had just learned about germs, and he was terrified.

"Germs," his teacher explained holding up a picture book page with a spiky green circle on it, "are very tiny living things that cause disease. They are so tiny you can't see them without a microscope. They are also very sneaky, and they can creep into our body and we don't even notice until we get sick! Getting sick is the sign that germs have attacked." Sam stared wide-eyed at the next page of a little boy with red eyes and a tissue, looking miserable. A victim of a germ attack.

As scared as he was, Sam was a Winchester and he knew without a doubt that Winchester's weren't victims. He wasn't going to roll over and let germs take him without a fight.

The battle began at that afternoon. Sam held Dean's hand as they walked from the bus stop to their current room at the Dew Duck Inn. Dean only let go when they reached the room and he pulled off his backpack to fish out the key. He held it down to his brother. "Here Sammy, want to do the key?"

Sam beamed up at him, but before he reached out to take the key he remembered. There could be germs on that key, and they would creep into his body if he wasn't careful! Sam tucked his fists into his sleeves and shook his head.

Dean gave him a weird look (along with pressing elevator buttons, unlocking doors was one of Sam's favorite activities), and shrugged. "Whatever." As soon as the door was open, Sam flew inside, throwing his bag on the ground and making a beeline for the sink.

"Dean!" he hollered over the sound of tap water, after he had thoroughly soaped his hands and up his arms, wetting his sweater in the process. "Dean!"

"What!"

"I need a towel!"

"You're in the bathroom. There's a towel hanging right there."

"No! It's too high up." Sam looked up above the sink, where a towel rack filled with clean towels perched above the mirror far out of his reach.

"What are you talking about?" Dean stomps over, his after-school snack, a stick of beef jerky, already in his hand. "Right here." He grabs a hand towel from above the toilet and throws it at him so that it lands on his shoulder.

"Ah, no!" Sam shakes it off, spraying droplets of water around the room. "I want that towel," he demands, pointing straight up.

"No Sam. Use that one."

Sam's only response is to stare at Dean with large puppy eyes, an expression he wields with deadly precision.

Dean huffs over, practically shoving his brother out of the way as he climbs up sink. He has to stand on the counter to reach them, as hotels were not designed for nine-year old boys, and yanks one off to land on Sam's head. "There." He jumps down and resumes eating his beef jerky. "You happy?"

Sam nods vigorously and gifts his brother with a bright smile. An excellent ally in his fight against germs. He wipes his hands dry and turns off the tap with the corner of the towel. Negligently, he drops the towel to the floor and pads out, toeing off his sneakers as he goes. Dean's sitting on the swirly office chair, probably irritated with him, his walkman on loud enough he could hear the rumbles of a bass beat and power chords; a new stick of beef jerky has replaced the old.

Sam ignores him, holding his clean hands out in front of him warily as looks around the room with new eyes. Their hotel room, he realized with dawning horror, was absolutely filthy. What before had just seemed like the normal clutter of a man and two boys living together (the two boys largely unsupervised the majority of their waking hours; John often didn't make it home for dinner) now appeared to be crawling with tiny, invisible monsters that could be crawling up his body en masse at any moment. There are probably even germs in the air, he thought suddenly, clamping his hands over his mouth.

The bathroom air spray! He ran back into the bathroom, tripping over his shoes in the middle of the doorway, and dove for the can of aerosol spray under the sink. It was a blue can with pictures of flowers on it, with big yellow letters reassuring him that it will kill '99.9 percent of germs.' Starting with the bathroom, he sprays the air, watching droplets dance in the fluorescent light. Then he sprays some more.

Never taking his finger from the button, Sam runs out into the room, waving the can around. Dean finally notices when he sprays his back on his tour of the kitchenette.

"Geez, Sam! What the heck. Stop it, that shit stinks."

Sam ignored him and continued spraying the room, engulfing them in an ocean of floral smell.

"I said cut it out. Stop!" Dean ran over and tried to grab the container out of his hands without getting a face-full of Lysol. "Gimme that. Stop it."

"Dean stop! Stop, let it go!" Now Sam tried to run away from his brother, who was trying to grab him. It didn't take him long so succeed, pinning him and wrestling the can away from him.

"There." Dean stood over him triumphantly, holding the can of air freshener aloft.

"Come on Dean. Give it back," he whined, sitting up on his knees.

"No. You're so annoying." Grumbling, he opened a window a crack to let some air in and then climbed up on the counter to put the spray can up as high as he could. Then with one more dirty look at his brother, he popped the headphones back on.

Defeated, Sam pouted on the floor, before he remembered; he was still in danger!

The bed, Sam thought quickly. Monsters couldn't hurt you under the covers; everyone knew that. He saw no reason why that shouldn't apply to germs. With a bit of effort, Sam climbed up the high bed and scrambled underneath, burying himself under the covers until he was leaning against the headboard with just his face peeking out.

As soon as he was safely behind his germ barrier, Sam realized he had forgotten to turn on the TV, or grab the germ book he had borrowed from school. Torn between boredom and facing the germs, Sam huddled under the blankets in indecision.

After about twenty minutes of staring around the room, Dean took notice of his strange behavior. He pulled off the headphones and glanced over at his brother and sighed heavily. "You alright over there?"

"Yeah," was the muffled reply.

"Look, I'm not still mad, okay. You want a snack?"

There was a pause. "Okay." Sam peeked over. "Wash your hands."

"What? Why?"

"Wash your hands first. It's flu season, Dean." Then he disappeared back under the covers.

Dean made a face and muttered "whatever dork," but he complied, though if Sam could see him splash a little soapy-water over his hands before wiping them on his pants, he would be appalled. "You want the rest of this beef jerky?" He held up half a stick; the other half had obviously been chewed off by Dean.

Sam emerged long enough to glare at it. "No."

"Fine, hold on." Searching through the cupboard in their little kitchenette, Dean came up with a Little Debbie cake and then poured a glass of milk. He brought the milk over and set it on the bedside table, and started to open the package. Sam's head popped out of the cocoon again at the sound of rustling plastic.

"Drink your milk," Dean said, as he struggled with the wrapper. Sam obliged, wiping off the lid of the cup carefully with clean fingers. Dean cursed under his breath, pulling hard at the wrapper's seam until it finally gave, bursting open and sending the cake flying to the floor. "Whoops." He bent down and picked it up, and held it out to his little brother. He waved it a bit when all Sam did was stare at him. "Come on, take it. What, do you want me to feed you?"

"No. I'm, uh. I'm not hungry." There was no way he was eating food that had touched the floor. He could practically see the germs crawling all over it. He felt his stomach turn. "I'll drink the milk," he added quickly.

Dean gave him an appraising look. "Make up or mind! You sure you don't want it? Fine, whatever. More for me. Do your homework or something." He moved back over to his walkman, and then glanced back at Sam. "You want your crayons?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Backpack please?" Dean obeyed, tossing the bright red and blue pack onto the bed. Sam attacked the zipper, pulling out a brightly-colored book.

"There ya go. We'll eat when Dad gets home."

Sam turned the pages of his germ book, silently sounding out the big words for the next hour or so. Dean loudly banged around the room, channel surfing and listening to music interchangeably, occasionally helping Sam with a word that was too difficult.

Around 5:30, John came home, bearing two cans of chicken noodle soup and a 2 liter of soda. He left as soon as he came, with instructions for Dean to 'get Sammy in bed by 8, I'll be home before 10.'

Dean put on cartoons while he cooked the two cans of soup, and Sam took a break from reading about germs (he was on the part about viruses, which were the scariest of all) to watch Bugs Bunny. He laughed and tried to get Dean to pay attention to the funniest parts.

"Alright, kiddo. Dinner time," Dean declared towards the end of the episode, turning off the burner. Sam jumped up and ran into the bathroom again to rewash his hands before he ate. By the time he went to the table, Dean had poured soup into two bowls and set them next to glasses of soda. Sam took a seat and picked up a spoon, ready to dive in, when Dean did something that made him freeze.

"Eat up. It's not too hot." Dean took his finger out of the bowl that he had swirled around to test the temperature, and licked off the broth.

Sam panicked. "I don't want soup Dean."

"Too bad. It's what's for dinner."

"No, I want something else."

"Don't be a brat. Eat the soup."

"No!" Sam was really getting worked up now. "I can't," he sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. "I want something else."

"Ugh, Sam. Knock it off. I thought you liked chicken noodle."

Sam just hiccupped in response, tears beginning to leak out of his eyes down reddening cheeks. "I can't eat it, Dean. I want something e-else."

"Why can't you eat it."

"I caaaan't." He was crying in earnest now. He couldn't eat that soup. Dean couldn't make him.

"Sammy, come on." Same just cried harder. "Will you tell me why you can't eat it? Do you have a stomach ache?"

"N-no. I'll get sick if I eat it."

"Why will you get sick?" Dean circled the table to stand next to his brother."

"Because! Because there are germs!" Sam stared a Dean pleadingly.

"What, germs? Don't be stupid."

"There are! Teacher said they were everywhere and, and they attack you and make you s-sick."

Dean looked back over at the bed where the germ book was still lying open, and sigh, shaking his head. "Okay, Sammy. Let me tell you something about germs. Yeah, some make you sick. But these are _family _germs, okay? You don't have to be scared of those." He reached out with a slick thumb and rubbed a spot on Sam's cheek, the way his mom always did when he was little. "Family germs, Sammy. Now eat your soup."

Sam took the bowl and watched Dean as he went back to his own chair, awestruck. Then he picked up his spoon and began to eat.

He didn't have to be scared of family germs.

* * *

Hey! This is my first Supernatural fic. Let me know what you think!


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